


Niño

by PengyChan



Series: Heaven and Earth [6]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Awkward Crush, Backstory, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-02 01:59:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15786639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PengyChan/pseuds/PengyChan
Summary: Héctor really wished Ernesto would stop treating him like a child… and that Imelda would glance his way at least once.[He found he really, really wanted to see more of that smile.]





	Niño

**Author's Note:**

> Took a while for me to get back to this series - sorry about that! The next parts should come more quickly now.  
> Also, this oneshot references to the events in Revolution, but it’s not strictly necessary to read that one.

For a time after his first brush with the Revolution, Héctor was unable to sleep at night.

The men he, Ernesto and Imelda had left behind in the hills – dead or dying or stranded – had never returned for revenge. Héctor had dreaded they would for a time and then, when no one had come, the nightmares had: the groans of the wounded, pleas for help gone unanswered, and then bones bleaching under the sun.

He’d woken up screaming a few times, causing his parents to rush in his room, ask if everything was all right, what that had been about. But he couldn’t tell them. He could never tell. He had promised with Ernesto and Imelda they would bring what had happened that night to their graves, and he wouldn’t go back on that promise.

But he so, so wished he could at least talk about it.

Imelda had hardly spoken to either of them in the couple of months since, taken as she was helping her mother raise her younger brothers and provide for them – and maybe, Héctor dared to think, she didn’t want to think about what they’d done, _had_ to do. He would spot her from time to time, in church or at the plaza. Sometimes she’d smile at him; if he was playing, she would hum along as she passed him by… and that was it.

In a way, it was almost a relief. They were bound by something still too raw and terrible for them to talk about, almost strangers as they were; small talk would would feel forced, and Héctor knew that the question - “Do you have nightmares, too?” - would stay stuck in his throat all along. So he would keep playing, smile back, and say nothing.

Talking to Ernesto should be easier, because he had always been there, and yet it was not. Ernesto behaved like nothing had ever happened, as though that night had left no mark on him at all other than the annoyance of having to rebuild his house without counting on any aid from a lame father who now also had a maimed shoulder.

It made Héctor feel as though the few years between them, those years that had made Ernesto the older brother he’d never had, had turned into the chasm of a lifetime. He was still a boy who had yet to turn fourteen, calling out for his parents to help him against night terrors while Ernesto, at seventeen, seemed more and more like a grown man.

“Don’t you ever have nightmares?” Héctor asked once, during a quiet moment, after he’d helped Ernesto rebuild part of the porch. They were sitting in the shade of a tree, and Ernesto had taken off his shirt - he did that a lot, now; he’d been a chubby boy, but now he was built like a bull and liked to show it - to wipe some sweat off his brow with it.

At Héctor’s words he paused, his hand in mid-air. “Nightmares?” he repeated, frowning. A hand had reached up to rub his forehead as though by its own accord, as if to get rid of a headache. It was a familiar gesture, and Héctor realized he hadn’t been specific at all.

“No, not those ones,” he said. When they were kids Ernesto tended to have a recurring nightmare about being trapped beneath _something,_ after an accident in the old mine shaft that had almost killed them. “About… you know,” he muttered, gesturing vaguely towards the hills. Ernesto turned to look, and said nothing for a few moments, his expression suddenly blank, a distant cast to his gaze. Then, finally, the blankness turned into something harsher.

“They’re fading,” he said. “We had no choice.”

“No,” Héctor agreed, and let out a small sigh of relief. If even Ernesto had nightmares, then it was all right if he did, too. “No choice.”

Ernesto glanced at him, and seemed thoughtful for a moment before grinning. “Sometimes I forget you’re still a niño,” he said, and ruffled his hair. It usually annoyed Héctor a lot, but now it felt reassuring. “You did good that day. They’re not here, but you are, and life goes on. Don’t look back,” he added, and for a time it was all the reassurance he needed.

* * *

“You know what would be great now?”

“A bath in the stream?”

“No, a-- actually, yes. A bath would _also_ be nice,” Ernesto conceded, sitting back on an empty crate and putting down the guitar. They’d been playing in the plaza for a while and got quite a few people humming along and dancing, and tips as well, but they’d also been sweating like animals in the process. It was an especially hot day, and the sun kept beating down on them. Ernesto looked down at his damp shirt, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

“If you take it off here, la señora Martinez is going to yell at you again,” Héctor warned, and Ernesto rolled his eyes, letting go of the hem of his shirt.

“Right, right. The old widow. She _wishes_ she could have a piece of this,” Ernesto muttered, and Héctor chuckled, but his heart wasn’t really in it. It was one of the comments and jokes that Ernesto had begun muttering only recently, after getting old enough to be allowed in the cantina to drink with the men despite his mother’s disapproval - a milestone he just wouldn’t shut up about. Maybe Héctor would find those jokes funnier once he was older, too. For now, he just laughed when expected to. He didn’t want Ernesto to call him a niño again.

“So what would be great?” he asked, turning the conversation back to its starting point, and Ernesto eyed the fruit stall nearby.

“Oh, good idea!” Héctor exclaimed, reaching to grab a few pesos. He really wouldn’t mind some fruit himself. “I want a peach! How much is--”

“Put the money away, chamaco. I got this.”

“Oh, no, please. Last time we got caught stealing peaches my mother wouldn’t let me hear the end of it, and--” Héctor began, rolling his eyes, only to trail off when Ernesto shrugged.

“We’re not going to steal anything, hermanito. We’ll have it added to the tab.”

“We don’t _have_ a tab.”

Ernesto grinned. “I do. Watch and learn,” he said, and reached up to fix his hair some. Héctor glanced back at the fruit stall to realize that old Pedro wasn’t the one manning it. He must have gone home - he complained a lot about the heat those days - and had left his daughter María del Carmen to look after the stall.

She’d always been tall and thin, and as children they had often called her Palilla. She was _still_ thin as a toothpick, but now almost everyone just called her Maricarmen - except for Ernesto, who was standing and walking up to the stall, guitar in hand.

“Hola, Mariquita! Nice day, huh? I was just thinking that the only thing that could make it better would be--”

“An apple down your throat if you so much _reach_ for the fruit without giving me money first.”

Ernesto’s smile widened as though she _hadn’t_ just threatened to choke him. “I was thinking of a peach or two, really. Or some papaya,” he added, causing Héctor to faintly wonder what that was about; Ernesto had never liked papayas.

Maricarmen, on the other hand, just raised an eyebrow. “Wonderful. Keep dreaming,” she said drily. “And most of all, hands off.”

Ernesto’s smile didn’t fade, and he held up his guitar. “Perhaps we can reach an agreement for a different form of payment?”

“It better be some song.”

“You pick the one, Mariquita, and I play it for you only,” he said, strumming the guitar. Héctor could have sworn Maricarmen’s mouth had twitched in a faint smile for just a moment before she crossed her arms.

“I pick two, and _if_ I like how you play you’ll get the peaches.”

“No papaya?”

“Don’t push your luck, pendejo.”

Héctor would have wondered again since _when_ Ernesto liked papayas so much, but he didn’t get to: just as Maricarmen started picking the songs she wanted, he heard someone calling out his name.

Well. Sort of.

“Oh, there he is!”

“Héctor!”

“It _is_ Héctor, right?”

“I think so? I’m about… eighty-five percent sure.”

“Maybe it was Alberto.”

“No, no, Imelda said it was Héctor…”

_Imelda!_

The mention of her name had Héctor’s heart leaping in his throat, or at least so it felt like. He turned so fast he almost fell off the box he’d been sitting on, and nearly dropped the guitar on his knees, to find himself staring at two identical faces - Imelda’s brothers. They were only a few years younger than him, and they were… well, just children. Was that how Ernesto saw him now? No wonder he didn’t seem to take him that seriously anymore and called him _niño_ all the time - something that was beginning to grate his nerves.

“You,” one of the boys said, tilting his head on one side. “You’re Héctor, right?”

“Sí. And you’re Óscar and… Felipe, right?” Hector asked. He’d only seen them around from time to time, usually carrying what looked like scrap metal they planned to build some contraption with, and never talked to them - but Imelda had mentioned them on their way back to Santa Cecilia, when… when they had done what they had to do in order to return home alive.

“Yes!”

“I’m Felipe and he’s Óscar.”

“Or maybe it’s the other way around.”

“Even mamá is not that sure.”

Héctor laughed. “You _do_ look identical,” he conceded. “You, er… you mentioned Imelda,” he added, hoping he’d managed to keep his voice firm.

_You said she mentioned me,_ he thought. He felt like his face had caught fire and for a moment he feared it would show - he blushed way too easily - but thankfully, the kids didn’t seem to notice anything.

“We did!”

“She’s our sister.”

“The one who went with you to get back, uh… Egidio?” one of them asked, and Héctor couldn’t hold back a snicker. Imelda had made a point to keep getting Ernesto’s name wrong on their way back to Santa Cecilia, to get back to him for stepping on her foot.

“Ernesto,” he said, giving a quick glance to the fruit stall over his shoulder. Ernesto was playing and singing as promised - Héctor immediately recognized _Cielito Lindo_ \- while Maricarmen served a client, smiling despite her clear effort not to. “And, uh… of course I remember Imelda,” he added, hoping that wouldn’t sound _too_ weird. “How is she?”

The two boys looked up at him with identical grins.

“She’ll turn fifteen in two weeks!”

“And we’re preparing her fiesta de quince años!”

“Well, it’s actually mostly mamá, and Álvaro is…”

“... gonna pay for all the food, he’s her padrino de banquete and…”

“... he’ll let us hold the party outside the cantina if the weather is good, or…”

“... inside, if it isn’t, but--”

“Oya, do you always do that?” Héctor laughed, holding up his hands. The boys kept finishing each other’s sentences, talking fast, and were getting hard to follow. “One at time, please!”

Two pairs of eyes rolled in almost perfect synchronization before one of the two - Felipe? - spoke up. “Fine. Imelda is going to have her fiesta at the cantina in two weeks. Álvaro is going to pay for the food and mamá for almost everything else, and we promised we’re going to take care of the music.”

“Can’t have a fiesta without music.”

“So we need to get musicians.”

“And _you_ are a musician.”

“Your friend, too, we see you at the plaza all the time.”

“So, will you play for our sister’s fiesta de quince años?”

Héctor blinked down at them, his brain coming to a standstill for a few moments. “You… want me to play for her?” he asked, his voice just a little shaky. His mind went back to the first and only time he’d played for her, watched her dance with Ernesto but smile at him. It was a performance they had been forced to put up to save their lives, and for the most part the memory of that night gave him a sense of dread, but there had also been moments like that - when he focused on the music, on her voice, and he’d known everything would be fine.

Unaware of his thoughts - he doubted Imelda had told them what had gone down that night; she had been adamant they should tell no one - the boys were nodding. “For her party, yes.”

“You _and_ your friend.”

“We can pay you!”

“We have, uh, some coins…”

“A lot of good metal!”

“Also a very interesting rock, it’s all sparkly inside.”

“We built a moving miniature cart, too! You just need to load the spring. Would you like that?”

“... Héctor?”

“Are you listening?”

Héctor recoiled, snapped out of the memory of the sharp smile on Imelda’s face that morning as they rode back towards Santa Cecilia, from the thought of what she would look like as Quinceañera, wearing her best dress and maybe with flowers in her hair, smiling at him again as she danced to his music.

“Uh? Oh! Yes! Of course!” he exclaimed. “I mean, no! You don’t have to pay me! I mean, us! I’ll do it! We’ll do it!”

The twins blinked up at him again, and slowly turned to look at each other. “Maybe we should have asked the other one,” one of them muttered.

“Asked me - here’s your peach, you’re welcome - asked me what, muchachos?”

Héctor winced when Ernesto spoke up suddenly, dropping a peach in his hands, that he almost dropped. He’d already bitten into his own, and was looking down at Óscar and Felipe with his head tilted on one side. Héctor spoke up before they could.

“They’re Imelda’s brothers,” he said, jumping on his feet on the crate and throwing an arm around Ernesto’s shoulders. Until not too long ago, he would have been able to do so without having to stand on a crate: he’d been about as tall as him, despite the four years between them. But now Ernesto had hit a growth spurt and Héctor hadn’t yet, and he could only hope he would catch up eventually; if he had to go his entire life being shorter than Ernesto, he’d be pretty annoyed. “You remember Imelda, right?”

Ernesto laughed, biting on his peach. “Hard not to,” he muttered through the mouthful. “Heard she’s turning fifteen soon.”

That caused Héctor - who’d already begun thinking up arguments, pleas and maybe a little bit of blackmail material to convince Ernesto they should play for free - to frown. “You didn’t tell me,” he muttered somewhat accusingly, and Ernesto blinked, taken aback, just as Héctor fully realized what he’d just said. He bit his tongue, but it was too late.

“I just found out because Mariquita is going, what’s the issue? I didn’t think it was--” Ernesto began, then he paused, staring at him, and his frown turned into a grin. A very, very wide grin. “Oh,” he said. “Oooh, I see how it is!”

“Ernest--”

“Mi hermanito, starting to grow up and--” Ernesto trailed off with a yelp when Héctor dug his fingers into his shoulder with all off his strength and turned to Óscar and Felipe, talking fast.

“They asked if we can to play for her fiesta, I said yes and also we’re doing it for free, now I _really_ gotta go so discuss the details with them!” he blurted out in one breath, and pushed Ernesto towards the boys before he jumped off the crate, grabbed his guitar, and ran.

He realized only at home that he still had the peach, clenched so tightly in his fist that his fingers were all sticky with juice.

* * *

“Sooo, how long has this been going on?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do. You’re all red now!”

“Because we’ve been under the sun all day!”

“Ay, have you become a gringo who burns under a little sun, niño?”

Héctor opened his mouth to retort, but he could feel his face burning even hotter. He knew that he had to look like a tomato now, and that would belie his words. Ernesto knew that, too, and laughed, reaching to ruffle his hair. “Hah, look at you, you’re growing up! Mi hermanito está enamorado de-- ouch!” he yelped when Héctor kicked his shin, but it clearly hadn’t hurt, because he was still snickering when he pulled back his hand. “That was uncalled for.”

“You deserved it,” Héctor huffed, and busied himself tuning his guitar. They were sitting on a small bench outside Héctor’s home, where they had been talking about the songs they had been asked to play and sing during Imelda’s fiesta - or at least, that was what they were supposed to be doing. Ernesto had spent more time teasing him than anything else.

“And here I was about to give you advice--”

“Don’t.”

“It’s _good_ advice!”

“So good Camila slapped you in the middle of the plaza.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“It was last week.”

“I’ve refined my technique a lot since, chamaco. I got us peaches today, didn’t I? Still working on the papaya, but I’ll get there.”

“What does that even--” Héctor began, only to trail off when the door of his house opened and his mamá’s head poked out. She blinked at them.

“Oh, here you are! Didn’t have to go far. Are you all right, Teto? You’re all red.”

Héctor tried to think of an excuse, but Ernesto got there first. “Caught a lot of sun today,” he said, patting Héctor’s shoulder. “I’m giving him tips on how to avoid sunstroke.”

Héctor refrained from rolling his eyes. “I’m fine, mamá,” he muttered, and his mother smiled.

“Good. I made such delicious pozole, it would be a shame if you were too sick to eat it. Is your mother back from Arrazola, Ernesto?”

Ernesto made a face. “Not yet. She’ll be back on Sunday, most likely. Her tía or whatever it is insisted for her to stay another week.”

“I see. Then perhaps you’d like to stay for dinner?”

The offer never failed to make Ernesto’s face light up. By now Héctor knew it wasn’t about the food as much as getting to be somewhere else other than his own home; he’d often also sleep on their couch or in Héctor’s room for the night. “I’d love to, señora. Gracias.”

“Oh, don’t mention it. Maybe you should let your father know you’ll be here, so he doesn’t worry?” she suggested, as she always did. Like every time, Ernesto shook his head.

“Hah! He wouldn’t notice if I were gone for a year,” he laughed. It sounded genuine, but Héctor knew it was not and he _really_ wished his mamá would stop asking. It was like rubbing salt on a raw wound Ernesto refused to acknowledge. “He’ll live without me for one evening.”

As his mother nodded and walked back in, Héctor fiddled with his guitar, giving it an absent-minded strum and glancing up at Ernesto. He was sitting a bit more stiffly than before and kept his gaze fixed ahead, fingers still on on the strings of his own guitar.

“You know, I would notice if you were gone for a year,” Héctor spoke up, and grinned when Ernesto blinked down at him. “I would notice if you were gone for a _hour._ I’d find myself wondering how come my headache is gone and realize that oh, right, Ernestito isn’t here to make himself a complete pain in the butt.”

Ernesto laughed, and this time was a real laugh, the kind that made everyone laugh along with him. He put an arm around Héctor’s shoulders. “Ay, what would I _do_ without you?” he exclaimed, throwing his head back with dramatic flair and holding his other hand to his heart.

Héctor had to laugh. “You’d manage.”

“No, I wouldn’t. I’m _so_ moved, I’ll even pretend I didn’t hear you calling me that.”

“Ernestito?”

“Oye, don’t push your luck,” Ernesto warned, still snickering, and Héctor grinned again.

“I was thinking I could write a song about you. _Ernestito, Tito, Mi Amigo._ How about that?”

“You really want me to break that guitar over your head, huh?”

“Didn’t you just say you don’t know what you’d do without me?”

“And you said I’d manage. I can _still_ find out who was right,” Ernesto muttered, poking Héctor’s side and causing him to yelp, trying to squirm away and slap his hand off him.

They were still squabbling like children when his mamá announced dinner was ready. Héctor went in feeling much lighter partly because he knew things between him and Ernesto hadn’t changed, no matter how much his  friend acted like a grownup, and partly because he didn’t bring up his crush for Imelda - he barely dared to call it what even in his own head - again. Well, almost.

“Try not to freeze like a rabbit when you see her, chamaco,” he mocked him, and that was it. When they talked about songs to perform for her fiesta - Ernesto complained about his promise of doing it for free, but not too much - Héctor told himself it would be all right.

He’d played in front of her before, played for her as she sang and danced, and under the worst possible pressure. Compared to that, playing for her fiesta de quince años would be a piece of cake. He just needed to focus on music and nothing else, and he could do anything.

* * *

_Oh God I can’t do this._

If not for Ernesto’s hand on his shoulder - he was clenching on it a bit too hard, really - Héctor might have actually stepped back when Imelda appeared before the cantina, where the tables and music stand had been set up for the party. She had come there directly from the church and was accompanied by her mother, brothers and court of honor - some of whom Héctor might have recognized if he focused, but he didn’t: he only had eyes for Imelda.

She was wearing her best Sunday dress with flowers in her hair, which was tied in a thick braid and pinned up, and a pendant of the Virgin of Guadalupe around her neck. It was really pretty, Héctor supposed, glimmering in the sun, but it seemed to pale next to her smile. It was so wide and openly happy, nothing like the sharp smiles he’d seen from her that evening in the hills or the thoughtful frown he would see on her face as she passed him by in the plaza, her arms full of groceries. He found he really, _really_ wanted to see more of that smile.

“I told you not to freeze, niño,” Ernesto’s voice snapped him from his thoughts. He sounded amused as he gave him a small shove. “Come on, get playing. The show must go on.”

He did, his fingers frozen stiff at first, but quickly gaining pace. He’d played that song so many times he couldn’t forget how to even if he tried, and that gave him something to focus on… and even so, he almost messed it up when Imelda’s gaze finally found him.

For a moment that smile faded, replaced by a surprised expression, and Héctor’s heart seemed to skip a beat even though his fingers did not. Next to him, Ernesto was playing as well, entirely unaware of the fact his best friend was forgetting how to breathe. He held his breath as Imelda glanced down at one of her brothers - no idea which one - questioningly, as said brother muttered something, as Imelda nodded… and then let it all out when she looked back at him and smiled again.

She was happy to see him.

Finger still moving on the strings, Héctor returned it with what was probably a dumb-looking grin, inwardly thankful for the fact Ernesto’s voice was powerful enough to be heard by everyone, because there was no way he could sing right now without his voice failing him. But he could play and play he did, song after song, as people ate and drank and danced. He watched Imelda dance with her brothers and the rest of her court of honor as she had watched her dance with Ernesto to his music, only three months ago.

Even then, despite the danger, he’d been able to focus on nothing but her and music, and he’d known everything would be all right. Now he felt exactly the same, so full of energy he felt close to bursting, and played and sang with all his heart. There were so many people all around, dancing to their music, and there was such a raw power in it all, in how their voices and words and the strings of their guitars could bring people together like that, and make Imelda smile in a way that put even the sun to shame.

Ernesto had been right: those soldiers were not there anymore, but _they_ were, and life went on. His fears and nightmares had never felt more far away, more unimportant, more _childish._ He played and played, losing track of time, and would have played some more if not for the fact Ernesto’s hand was suddenly on his guitar in the few moments of pause between one song and the next.

Héctor glanced up, taken aback, to see him grinning. He looked like he was having the time of his life, playing for so many people. “Take a break, chamaco. Put the guitar down and go steal a dance. You’ve got your good clothes on and all.”

Dancing with Imelda? The thought alone would have made him turn bright red only a hour earlier but now, elated as he was - feeling almost drunk, like the times he’d drank in secret with Ernesto but without the sense of nausea - it seemed… yes, it was a good idea, really. And yet… “I’ve got to play. I promised,” Héctor said.

Ernesto rolled his eyes. “Ah, por Dios, just go,” he muttered, getting the guitar off him. “I’ve got this. This is the right moment to go and get this dance, hermanito!”

What came next came without much thought. Héctor walked among dancing people - pairs and groups, and people dancing on their own - just as Ernesto’s voice rose again. He headed for Imelda, whose braid was coming undone as she danced, moving from one partner to the other. He heard the song Ernesto was singing through his own rushing blood.

_De piedra ha de ser la cama,_ __  
_de piedra la cabecera;_ __  
_la mujer que a mi me quiera,_ __  
_me ha de querer de a de veras._ _  
_ _Ay, ay, corazón por qué no amas!_

Imelda twirled, and suddenly they were face to face. She paused, taken aback, and Héctor suddenly wished a lot of things - that he hadn’t listened to Ernesto, that his ears weren’t so big and his nose so long and his limbs so thin, that he were handsome and confident and graceful like Ernesto - in the space of a second.

Then that second passed, Imelda smiled again, and suddenly none of it mattered at all because she danced and so did he, they danced _together,_ laughing and twirling around each other as though their feet weren’t even touching the ground.

_Subí a la sala del crimen_ __  
_le pregunté al presidente:_ __  
_que si es delito el quererte,_ __  
_que me sentencien a muerte._ _  
_ _Ay, ay corazón por qué no amas!_

“Thanks for playing,” Imelda called out, barely audible through the music and Ernesto’s voice. “My brothers told me - you should at least take something for your trouble!”

Héctor grinned. “No trouble at all!” he exclaimed, and they spun again, more people joining the dance. Given the circumstances of their meeting all of that felt so wonderfully, perfectly normal. That terrible secret binding them, keeping them quiet around each other, no longer mattered… not that evening, at least. For now, there was only music. When Ernesto sang again he joined in, and so did Imelda.

_El día en que a mi me maten,_ __  
_que sea de cinco balazos_ __  
_y estar cerquita de ti,_ __  
_para morir en tus brazos._ _  
_ _Ay, ay corazón por qué no amas!_

_Por caja quiero un sarape,_ __  
_por cruz mis dobles cananas_ __  
_y escriban sobre mi tumba_ __  
_mi último adiós con mil balas._ _  
_ _Ay, ay corazón por qué no amas!_

Héctor - who wouldn’t be killed by five bullets, would not get to die in his beloved’s arms and would never be buried in a sarape - danced through the song, and the next and the next, trying to catch more glimpses of that smile as feeling as though nothing else in the world mattered.

* * *

The party finished at dusk, and Héctor stayed for a little bit afterwards - accepting some of the food left over as a thank you, repeating over and over that it had been a pleasure and yes, he would extend their thanks to Ernesto as well, since the pendejo seemed to have disappeared in thin air, who knew where to.

The twins slipped something in his pocket as a thank you, a small contraption that would move once a spring was wound up, and Imelda had smiled again, telling him she’d see him around. When he’d finally headed home in the darkening streets, Héctor still felt almost inebriated despite drinking nothing but water and walked as though on a cloud

_I’ll see you around,_ she’d said. They seemed the most beautiful words ever uttered to him. Maybe he should write a song about it, about that smile and the way the braid came undone, flowers falling down her shoulders. Héctor’s face felt hot, but something warm sat in his chest, too, and he didn’t mind that. It was a nice feeling, and if he could hold onto it a little while longer, enough to sit down and put it into words…

“HÉCTOR! MI HERMANO!”

“Gah!” Hector let out a yelp when Ernesto’s voice suddenly boomed somewhere on his left, and he had no time to turn: the next moment Ernesto’s arm was around his shoulders and he was holding him to his side, laughing, seemingly absolutely delighted. Héctor laughed, too.

“Ernesto! Where did you go? You have no idea, it was so… she was so… we danced and she said--” he began, only to trail off when Ernesto waved his hand dismissively.

“Yes, yes, cute, you’ll tell me later,” he said, and grinned broadly. “Guess who got papaya?”

Wait, what? Héctor blinked up at him, some confusion beginning to replace the warm, fuzzy feeling. “What _is_ it with you and papayas? You never even liked--” he began, only to be cut off by a sudden, uproarious laugh.

“Hah! You really are still a niño, Héctor. I’ve become a _man_ now!”

The confusion was replaced by something closer to dread. Héctor had vague ideas of what that meant - he wasn’t a _little_ kid, thank you so much - but he suddenly found he didn’t really want to know anything more than what he already did… and Ernesto had never been one to hold back when bragging. “That’s, uh. Great! Hey, I was thinking of writing a new song--” he tried, but to no avail. Ernesto just went on as though he hadn’t spoken at all.

“Let me tell you everything!” he exclaimed, clearly elated. “So, I was there playing and singing, right? I knew Mariquita had been invited, and there she was, right? So after we were done playing I went and offered to walk her home...”

* * *

“Didn’t Héctor say he would be back a hour ago?”

“Well, perhaps the fiesta lasted longer than expected. And he’s out with Ernesto, you know how those two are. Probably up to mischief.”

“Hah, true! I hope he doesn’t don’t return too late, we need to rise early tomorrow and--”

The sound of a door opening caused Ricardo to trail off. Both him and his wife looked up to see their son standing in the doorway, guitar on his shoulder… and looking oddly pale.

“Teto?” Emillia called out, a worried frown on her face, and stood. “Is everything all right?”

Héctor looked up, his eyes moving back and forth between them a few times, then his face twisted in a disgusted expression, like he’d just bitten into something rotten. _“Eeeugh,”_ he groaned, and walked - almost stomped - past them and up the stairs, muttering something that sounded much like _‘never’._ Ricardo blinked, and turned to his wife.

“What was that about?” he asked, causing Emilia to sigh and shrug.

“Only God knows,” she muttered. “Sometimes I wonder about that niño.”

**Author's Note:**

> A quick note - the song, _La cama de piedra_ , was suggested to me by AleBuena (who was super patient answering my questions on what Imelda's party would be like at the time!). It was written after this story's setting, but it fit so well I couldn't resist taking a little creative liberty and using it anyway.


End file.
